On the Road
by reconnoiterer
Summary: A series of short, random, unordered scenes set between the bombing of Raccoon City and the fall of Umbrella.
1. Chapter 1

Jill stifled a yawn, reaching for her extra-large Styrofoam cup of truck stop coffee in the van's console. It was early morning, nothing but sky, clouds, and empty space stretching out around the moving vehicle.

"Why don't you catch a few winks?" Barry asked from the driver's seat, steering with one hand as he balanced his own cup of coffee on his leg.

"I'm alright," she said, straightening out the map that was spread over her legs.

They had been driving almost non-stop for two days, heading east towards S.T.A.R.S. headquarters. It would have been an easy enough route, but they'd opted for back roads and secondary highways, hoping to throw off anyone who might want to stop them from reaching their destination.

Barry glanced up at the rear-view mirror, taking in the sleeping crowd in the back seats. Rebecca and Sherry were in the back, each leaning up against the side of the van closest to them. Sherry had Claire's vest balled up into a pillow under her head. Rebecca had wrapped her arms tightly around her middle, her head bobbing slightly with the cracks in the pavement. In the next row, Leon was occupying the centre seat, his long legs stretched out in front of him between the front two. Claire was passed out with her head on his uninjured shoulder, his cheek pressed to her forehead.

"So, what do you think?" Barry asked, indicating the back seat with a jerk of his head. Jill turned slightly to see what he meant, the map crinkling over her knees.

"Awe, isn't that adorable," she said, perhaps a little sarcastically, taking another sip of her over-sweetened coffee.

"You don't think Chris is going to have kittens?"

"Oh, Chris is definitely going to shit a brick. Like he has any right to."

They had a habit of talking like this, like there wasn't a very great possibility that Chris Redfield was lying dead in a ditch somewhere, or worse. It was a bad habit: an easy one to slip into and a painful one to break out of.

"That's just how it is with little sisters, Jill."

"Right. I'm sure Claire really appreciates being an excuse for her brother's testosterone fuelled Hulk episodes."

Barry sighed, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "It's going to be a massacre."

"Woah," Jill said, holding up a hand, "you are giving him _way_ too much credit."

"Chris Redfield, hopped up on fraternal instinct and frustration, vs Rookie Leon – c'mon Jilly, we both know how this ends."

"Hey, Leon's _tough_ – he wouldn't be alive if he weren't. I think he'd put up more of a fight than you think."

"Oh yea?" Barry raised an eyebrow, "how sure of that are you? Ten bucks sure?"

"Desserts every night for two week sure. This is the end of the world Barry, money's no good here."

"That's a steep wager – what are your terms?"

"Hmmm," Jill thought for a moment, tapping a finger against her lip. "I bet you two weeks' dessert that Leon doesn't go down without seriously rearranging at _least_ one of Chris' facial features."

"You sure you want to make that bet?"

"I'm sure. You sure you've got that much faith in your boy, old man?"

"Oh, I'm sure. You don't know him like I know him."

"I know him well enough. Chris may be built like a tank, but he moves like one too. He's _so_ _slow_," she said, dragging out the word.

"All it takes is one good hit and your rookie is down for the count."

"Leon's _wiry_. I mean look at the reach on that kid. Chris won't even know what hit him."

"He's also hurt," Barry said, his tone indicating that he was stating the obvious.

"If you don't think Chris is going to be hurting after I get through with him…" Jill said. She rubbed her hands together. "I can taste those cookies already Barry, and they are _delicious_. I hate to think what they'll do to my figure, but if that's the price I have to pay to put you and Mr. Redfield in your place well…"

"Don't get me wrong, Leon's a good kid, but he's-"

"Not asleep," came a grumble from the back seat. Jill turned around to find Leon looking back at her with one eye cracked open and the same eyebrow raised. In the front seat Barry was trying not to laugh aloud.

"Good, then he knows what's at stake," she said, tossing him a muffin out of the paper bag next to her feet. "So eat up champ, I need you in top form – I'll split the winnings 50-50 with you."

Leon caught the muffin jostling Claire in the process. She groaned, shifting to sit sideways on the bench.

"What's going on?" she asked, only half awake.

"Barry and Jill are planning to pit me against your brother in a duel to the death."

"Mmmm, that's nice," she said, shifting to get comfortable again.

Leon sighed, peeling the top off of his muffin. "I knew I was better off with the Bomb."


	2. Chapter 2

A knife. How very Chris Redfield. How very _uselessly_ Chris Redfield, Jill thinks to herself, taking the blade along with her as she strides out of the cramped hideout back to the van where Barry is waiting. It was a long shot, coming out here to one of Chris' old hideouts, but the disappointment still hurts. Still, she refuses to give up the hope that he is alive somewhere, refuses to believe he was vaporized along with the rest of her life in Raccoon City. Barry doesn't bother saying anything when he sees her come back out alone, just climbs in the driver's side and starts the engine.

"Nothing?" he asks as she hoists herself into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut.

"Just this," she holds out the old, worn knife and Barry glances at it as he puts the van in reverse.

"His lucky knife. What do you think that means?"

In the back of her mind Jill wants to believe that Chris left it for her, knowing she would come looking for him. It's tempting, but she also knows how absent-minded he can be when he gets excited.

"I don't know what to think anymore," Jill pinches the bridge of her nose.

Barry steers the van back out onto the gravel road, switching on the radio to drown out some of the silence. They're only a few dozen miles away from the containment zone, but in this isolated stretch of road it feels as if they could be anywhere.

Just like Chris.

At this point, Jill is just willing to settle for knowing whether or not he's alive. Thinking of what could have happened to him if he's fallen into Umbrella's hands is keeping her awake at night.

Barry turns another corner and in the distance Jill can make out a group of figures.

"What's this?" she asks, leaning forward in her seat.

"Berry-pickers?" Barry offers.

"At this time of year?" Jill looks at him with one eyebrow raised. It was an expression she'd picked up from Joseph. Barry just shrugs, there's not much else out here for a pedestrian. Barry slows down slightly as they approach the group, taking his foot off the accelerator so they aren't sprayed with loose stones. Jill reaches for the semi-automatic holstered at her hip. Just in case.

As the van roars past Jill glimpses something familiar.

"Pull over."

"Jill?"

"Pull over!" Her door is already half open by the time the van coasts to a stop. Up ahead the group of pedestrians keeps walking, distinctly not taking notice of them. Jill jogs a few steps. "_Claire!_" she yells, her voice nearly cracking at the volume.

Up ahead, one of the figures turns slightly. Jill yells again, running at a jog.

"Jill?!" comes the decreasingly distant reply. In the space between the van and the other two pedestrians the running figures crash together.

"Claire honey," Jill pulls back slightly from the vice-like grip the younger Redfield has her in, "what are you doing here? Did Chris come to get you?"

"No…" Claire says quietly, her blue eyes overpowering her gaunt features. "You mean he's not with you?" Jill feels trembling hands grip into jacket even tighter. The other two members of Claire's group approach cautiously, hanging back a safe distance.

Sensing something important has just occurred, Barry turns the van around and rolls up the few meters. Recognizing the auburn haired young woman he leaps out the driver side door, pulling the girl out of Jill's arms into a fierce bear hug of his own.

"Claire what are you doing here?" he echoes Jill's question. "Did you come out here all by yourself?"

Claire nods into his barrel chest, pulling away before she's overcome with pent-up emotion and frustration. It doesn't matter if Jill or Barry see her cry, but she doesn't want to look weak in front of Leon and Sherry. She needs to be strong for them, since she's the reason they're out here anyway. She needs to be strong because if she allows herself to be weak she just might lose it completely.

"I thought maybe we should check out the old hideout," she says, clearing the tightness in her throat with a cough. Behind her, Leon and Sherry have moved a few feet closer.

"Hey kid, are you alright?" Barry asks the young man in the R.P.D. uniform. He's clutching his shoulder over blood-soaked bandages, his entire face covered in a sheen of sweat. Although he's familiar with most of the R.P.D. officers, Barry can't recall the lanky figure in front of him. Must be the rookie.

"Yea," the reply is hoarse and the young girl beside him looks up at Leon with concern.

"I think you'd better sit down," Barry suggests, sliding open the rear door of the van. Leon's eyes flick over to Claire and she nods in approval.

"They're friends of my brother's – Jill and Barry. This is Leon and Sherry," Claire indicates the parties with a wave of her hand. Jill leans in close to her so her voice won't carry.

"Has he been bitten?"

"What?" confusion flashes over her features. She looks back at Leon, his stained bandages and pale, sweating features. It looks like he could fall over at any moment – and get back up shortly thereafter. She shakes her head, "no, it's a gunshot wound."

Jill relaxes, her shoulders loosening visibly, "thank God," she says, then glances over at the young man sitting on the edge of the van, the young girl in Claire's vest huddled next to his side. "Sorry, I know that sounds awful but…"

"I know. It's better than the alternative."

They both walk over to the van and Barry climbs back into the driver's seat, twisting the key in the ignition. Claire slides onto the middle bench of seats next to Leon and Sherry.

The scenery begins to slide past in a blur, and although she's thankful to have found Jill and Barry, she can't help but feel as though she's taking a step backwards from where she needs to be.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey Rookie, you're up," Leon looked up at the hulking form of Chris Redfield who nodded at the door behind him. Chris never made eye contact with him, something that had bothered Leon endlessly at first. He had taken it personally until he noticed that Chris never made real, lasting eye contact with anyone in their little group. Not even Barry, and especially not Jill. Still, something about Chris and his G.I. Joe Standard Issue bearing made Leon want to get up in his face, to see if he could break that mold.

Leon had been dreading this moment for weeks and now that the moment was finally here he didn't have anything in him left except quiet resignation. He slid out of his chair, walking the few steps to the door and shouldering past Chris into the room. Although the sick rooms of his imagination were dark and humid with the stink of infected breath, the chamber where Chris had quarantined his sister after their whirlwind return from Antarctica was anything but.

"Leon, thank _God_," Claire said, sitting cross-legged on the bed. A radio crackled softly on the dresser. "I'm going insane in here! Would you mind telling my brother that frostbite is not fucking contagious?"

Leon smirked a little, "I could try, but I don't think he'll listen to me."

"Maybe you can sweet-talk Rebecca into doing it – she thinks you're cute."

"Doubtful. She thinks Chris is cuter."

Claire rolled her eyes, grabbing one of the pillows and hugging it around her waist. They both knew she was stuck in here for her own good, her immune system and nerves still recovering from the ordeal. Still, she was going stir-crazy in the tiny bedroom. She looked over at Leon and her smile faded. He looked tired, his shoulders slumped and his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. She'd been looking forward to seeing him again from almost the moment she'd left, and now that they were reunited he looked like he couldn't wait to be somewhere else.

"Thanks for checking your e-mail so regularly – you really saved my butt," she tried for a smile, but could tell it was lost on him. Something was bothering him, and she had a feeling it was the same thing that had been bothering her since she'd come back. "Leon, where's Sherry? I haven't seen her, and no one will tell me anything."

"That's because I asked them not to," Leon looked down at the stitching on the quilt under her knee. This was going to be painful.

"Why would you ask them to do that?" she asked, scepticism creeping faintly into her voice. He had to admit she was fairly skilled at keeping it under wraps. She still had that much faith in him – for now.

This was going to be _drawn out_ and painful.

"I wanted to tell you about what happened myself."

Claire locked her arms more firmly around her middle. "Well then, I guess you'd better start talking."

Leon kept his eyes focused on the quilt patch beside her knee. It was a dark blue fabric dotted here and there with tiny, reddish-brown feathery shapes. If he started hard enough he could almost see the shapes start to move.

"I uh…" he scratched the side of his nose, "I turned Sherry over to the Feds."

"_You what?_" the voice that questioned him was not one Leon had ever heard come out of the slight, youthful form of Claire Redfield. He looked up into her face to find her pinning him with a glare.

"I turned-"

"I heard you the first time," she snapped. Claire fisted her hands into the down of the pillow so he wouldn't see them shaking. "I think you'd better start your story from the beginning."

Leon can feel himself getting backed into a corner, the same way the black suits with the government badges muscled him into giving them what they wanted. He hates it, and he's starting to resent her reaction, even though he knows she's entitled to it. This is supposed to be his best friend, the one person left in this world who can understand him, the one person he'll believe if she tells him it's not his fault.

He tried to explain to her how the agents showed up out of nowhere, hauling both of them to some nondescript office building. How he'd hardly had a choice but bargained for Sherry's freedom anyway. How in the end it was best for her. But Claire just looked at him harder and harder until she couldn't stand to look at him at all. When he was finished he swallowed hard, wishing he could swallow all the words back down.

"How could you do this to me Leon?" her face was contorted when she turned her face back to him. "_Why_ would you do this? Is it because I left?"

"It wasn't about you," his own voice sounded gravely coming out of his throat. "It was about _Sherry_ and what was best for her."

"_Ha_," the laugh is a sharp, cruel sound. "You honestly think that's what's best for her? Growing up in some fucking foster home?"

"We are living on the _run_, Claire. That's no life for a twelve year old kid."

"So you just abandoned her to complete strangers?" Claire stood up, her feet burning a little bit from the frostbite. The pain just made her feel stronger, more driven. "I thought you said they didn't give you a choice."

"_It wasn't a choice!_" A muscled twitched rapidly in Leon's jaw, his eyes starting to burn. His voice was barely more controlled when he spoke again. "You weren't here Claire, you didn't have to see her every day, wasting away on rations and fucking dimestore paperbacks. A kid like that deserves better."

"And I bet you think you made it all right, now. Isn't that right Leon?"

"I bet you think you could have done it better. Isn't that right Claire?"

"You're fucking right I could have! I could have taken care of her!" She was next to tears, her whole body thrumming with indignation.

"Yea maybe you could have. Maybe you could have if you weren't on the other side of the fucking world wasting your time chasing your goddamn brother who's obviously perfectly capable of taking care of himself."

She reached out and slapped him across the face, hard enough to turn his head.

"Just get out," she spat at him after a silent, tense moment. Leon turned around, pausing with one hand on the doorknob, the side of his face still burning.

"I'm leaving in two weeks," he said, still facing the door.

"Where?"

"I don't know."

He heard her shifting her feet on the carpet.

"Fine. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

Leon stepped out into the hallway where Chris and Jill were standing awkwardly apart. He saw them exchange a quick look.

"Don't let me interrupt," he said and started off down the hallway. He was sick and tired of Redfields.


	4. Chapter 4

Rebecca finds the end of the bandage tucked around Leon's back. He's sitting backwards on a wooden chair, his long, filthy fingers clutching at the spindles of the back rest.

"Sorry, you said your name was-?"

"Leon. Leon Kennedy."

"And you're with the R.P.D.?"

"I was. Only for a day though," he gives a little self-depreciating laugh.

Rebecca unwraps a length of gauze and Leon hisses through his teeth as part of his shoulder tries to go along with it.

"When was the last time this bandage was changed?" she asks, using a small pair of scissors to cut away some of the stained fabric.

"I don't know. I don't even know what day it is."

Rebecca spares a glance at her wristwatch. "It's the fifth, about noon."

"In that case, you probably don't want to know." Leon thinks back to what must be at least two days ago when Claire had sprayed an entire can of First Aid Spray into the wound and changed the dressing with supplies they'd picked up at a gas station. It hadn't been a particularly pleasant experience.

When she's done unwrapping the gauze Rebecca goes to work on the soiled tatters of his R.P.D. uniform shirt, cutting it down the back from neck to waist. She pushes the cloth aside and is almost thankful that due to her involvement with Umbrella the sight and smell of rotting flesh no longer bothers her. Almost.

The wound site is grossly swollen, oozing and, as she expected, a ring of black, dead flesh surrounds the impact site. She steps around the chair to examine the matched set of damage, her hands moving lightly over his heated, discoloured skin.

"Somebody shot you in the back," she says with concern, comparing the two bullet-holes.

"I know," Leon replies flatly. He doesn't want to think about either who shot him or who didn't get shot _because_ of him.

"You're lucky your collarbone isn't shattered."

"Yea, I'm a pretty lucky guy alright."

Rebecca scribbles something on a pad of paper and leaves the room for a moment, instructing him to take off what's left of his shirt. She finds Barry and Jill interrogating Claire and Sherry in the kitchen and hands the slip to Barry, enlisting Jill to help her gather supplies and for assistance. She doesn't really need the help – there's not much an extra set of hands can do except get in the way - but she's never done anything like this alone before and doesn't think this is a good time to start.

By the time she and Jill make their way back up to the bedroom the three of them are alone in the house. Rebecca sets up everything she needs within easy arm's reach while Jill makes awkward small talk with Leon, who's becoming more irritable by the second. The new scalpel blade slides into its handle with an easy familiarity that unfortunately brings Rebecca no confidence.

Leon can feel the women take their places on either side of him – Rebecca behind the chair, scalpel in hand, and Jill in front of him, her hands cool and refreshing where they touch his neck and shoulder. Jill can see Rebecca's hand shaking as she moves the blade closer to the rotting lesion and she takes a step closer to Leon, ready to help restrain him if it comes to it.

"It'll be okay," she says, looking at the younger S.T.A.R.S. member, but Leon is the one who replies, nodding vaguely under her hands. Rebecca takes a deep breath and makes the first cut.

At first Leon thinks everything might be okay. Then his nerves catch up with the fact that someone is cutting pieces of _meat_ out of his back and he has to choke back a yell of revulsion and pain, sinking his teeth hard into his bottom lip. Rebecca works as quickly as she can, but she's nervous and not very practised, and it quickly becomes a horror show. Jill pulls his head in close to her middle, stifling some of his gasps and mewls with her body. He keeps his own body still by clutching the chair back hard enough that his fingers go numb. Leon screws his eyes shut as tightly as he can, the sound of his rapid, heavy breathing not nearly loud enough in his own ears to stiffly the sound of wet flesh smacking against a bowl.

By the time she's finished clearing out both wounds Rebecca's hands are shaking so badly that she's taking out twice as much tissue as she needs to. Jill is surprised, if not a little impressed, that he doesn't pass out when Rebecca douses the wounds in antiseptic.

From the window they can all hear the sound of the van pulling back into the yard. Rebecca quickly douses her hands with water and runs downstairs to collect the antibiotics, pain medication, and dressings she sent Barry out for. Jill dips a rag in the water pitcher and wipes it gently across Leon's face and neck. She's less fazed than Rebecca, more accustomed to men, their wounds, and their pain.

"What did you say your name was again?" Leon asks, his eyes barely open, long locks of filthy, sweaty hair hanging down over his face.

"Jill Valentine," she says rinsing the rag and wringing it out. She kneels in front of him, washing his hands and arms like a mother washes a sticky child. He's too weak to resist her ministrations.

"Like the holiday. That's cute," he rests his head on his good shoulder, still feverish.

"And you're Leon Kennedy right? Just like the president?"

He manages a quick breath through his nostrils in amusement. "_Just_ like the president. We Kennedy's make good targets."

Rebecca comes back in, her arms laden with supplies and Jill gets up to help her. Together they finish clearing out the wounds and securely bandaging him up. Rebecca medicates him and sets him to bed, leaving Jill to help him finish undressing. She takes the pan and soiled cloths and carries them outside to the nearly antique chimenea Barry pulled out of the bush a few days ago. Setting the pan down on the ground beside the fledgling woodpile, she takes a few steps into the brush, and vomits up what feels like everything she's eaten in the past week.


	5. Chapter 5

It took Chris a moment to realise that he was staring, a loaf of bread dangling in one hand, a package of Laughing Cow spreadable cheese wedges in the other. His French is only passable, but the headline isn't what caught his attention – the only two words he needs to read were in English: Raccoon City. Underneath the text was a black and white photo of a massive mushroom cloud erupting over the familiar silhouette of alpine forest. He shoved his groceries onto a nearby shelf, striding out of the store with what he hoped were calm, unnoticeable steps.

He started up the street to a newsstand he knew sold English newspapers. Several of the major publications boasted headlines about the tiny American town and he took a copy of each, throwing a few bills down on the counter. He found an empty bench in a massive cemetery and sat down in the shade. He would have preferred a different location, but it was a beautiful fall day and he knew the well-groomed parks of this bed and breakfast community would be filled to bursting with tourists.

He tore through the newsprint, eyes flickering over the pages, disappointed to find the same few facts regurgitated endlessly. There were few details aside from what was impossible to deny – that the American government had turned one of its warheads on itself. Still, Chris could smell the reek of Umbrella coming off the page.

He flipped through the pages again, the greasy feel of newsprint smearing black over his fingers. Of course there was nothing in it about causalities. Nothing in it about Jill Valentine. He knew everyone else must be safe – his sister at college, Barry and his family up in Canada with Rebecca. It wasn't worth trying to save face in a town where over half of the working population was employed by the corporate giant you were fighting to take down. Raccoon City had little to offer anyone looking to leave, so everyone else had left. Everyone except himself, at first, and then Jill.

He had gotten out, he reminded himself, surely Jill had followed suit shortly afterward? He knew Jill was tough enough to hack it against the undead masses, but had to admit she would likely have met her match at an atomic missile.

Chris had sat through his share of high school history classes. He knew what happened to people who were that close to a blast like that. The thought of Jill existing only as a shadow burned into a sidewalk sent a rush of anxiety through his body. He threw the stack of papers down on the bench and stood up, the cemetery suddenly a smothering reminder of death. He ran for the back entrance, nearly tripping his booted feet against a couple of crumbled headstones as he went.

His flight took him to the edge of town and beyond, past it into the tamed wilderness of roadways and fields. He was running because he should have stayed, because he should have brought her with him, because there had been so many things he wanted to say and do when he got back that he would never get a chance to. Because there was one more S.T.A.R.S. member he couldn't save.

He ran until the muscles in his legs gave out, depositing him gasping and sweating in a heap underneath the trees of a grove. His breath came in rapid wheezes that sounded like sobs and didn't slow down. He fisted great handfuls of damp soil between his fingers, grasping at something solid to hold on to.

Pulling himself up to sit back against forcing deep lungfuls of air down his throat. His dirty fingers balled up the fabric at the knees of his pants.

He had to get back.


	6. Chapter 6

Leon is standing in his bedroom with a half-packed duffel bag laid out on the bed. He thinks it's a waste of time, packing a bunch of clothes that they're just going to take away from him anyway, but he knows he'll feel awkward showing up with nothing. He doesn't want to look like he's been living in a cabin for the past few weeks wearing someone else's clothes, regardless of how true it is. So he keeps stuffing Chris Redfield's clothes into Chris Redfield's duffel bag and tries not to think about tomorrow.

There's a knock at the door and he calls out an invitation to enter. He's genuinely surprised when Claire's face appears from behind the door. They've been avoiding each other for the past few days. It's no easy task to stay away from someone in such a small space, but with both of their efforts they've done a pretty good job of it.

"Hey, are you busy?" she asks, her head just peeking through the space between the door and its frame.

"No," he says, lifting the bag up to set it down on the chair. Claire comes into the room and closes the door behind her. It's a tiny space; it is now officially impossible to avoid each other. Leon wants to switch places with her so he can bail for the door if he needs to. "So, what's up?"

Claire sits down on the neatly made bed. "I wanted to apologize to you, before you go." She looks up at him, "you've been a good friend to me – a _best_ friend – when I really needed one, and I was a bitch to you when I'm sure you needed one. So, I'm sorry. I hope it's not too late."

Leon is leaning up against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He had a feeling something like this might be in the works.

"Don't worry about it," he says with a shrug.

"It's just," she lets out a long breath, "you don't know what it's like to lose your parents Leon, and I don't hold that against you. But you don't know – you can't know - what it's like to grow up knowing that the only people who will ever love you unconditionally are gone."

Leon doesn't say anything. They both know she's right.

"I have to find her. Please don't think that I don't admire what you did for her."

"I don't."

"It just breaks my heart to think of how lonely and afraid she must be."

"Don't think I wanted this to happen."

"I don't. I don't blame you, I blame myself for leaving."

"Don't." He's still standing in the same place, his arms still crossed, but his posture is less rigid. "They had our number - it was only a matter of time."

"I just feel so… helpless," she drops her hands against her legs.

"I know. If there's anything I can do to help…"

"Thanks." She shuffles over on the bed and pats the space beside her. Leon finally changes position, coming over to sit next to her on the bed, his arms draped over his thighs. "I wish you didn't have to leave."

"Me too. But I'm afraid of what they might do to her if I try to stay."

"What do you think they'll do to _you_?" Claire can remember how it was when her brother first came home from the Air Force. He was always a little different after that first round of training. She doesn't want Leon to change, and she doesn't want to be alone.

"It doesn't matter," he says with another shrug.

"Are you scared?"

"No. I'm not scared of anything anymore."

Claire turns her body a bit so they're not both facing straight ahead.

"I'll miss you."

Leon turns his head to look at her.

"I'll miss you too." It's true. Nobody understands like she understands. They both know things are going to get very tough for him when he goes away. Neither of them knows if anything will be the same afterwards.

Claire leans forward and wraps her arms around his neck. It takes a moment for him to respond and for a second she's worried that he won't. Then his arms come up and pull her tightly into his chest.

"I'm so sorry," she mumbles into his chest. She recognizes the shirt from her brother's closet, but that's not the kind of familiarity she's seeking.

"I'm sorry," he says against her hair. He can't imagine that this is the last time he'll ever see her. He pulls back a bit, just enough to be able to see her entire face in focus. Her arms are still wrapped around his neck, half of her body pulled over his lap. She's warm and soft and _Claire_, so beautifully reckless and dedicated it sometimes makes his mouth dry.

Leon is seriously considering doing something very dangerous, and possibly very stupid, when there's another knock at the door.


	7. Chapter 7

"Is he…alright?" Chris asked, sliding into the chair Leon had just vacated at the kitchen table. Jill had her head bowed, working on a crossword in a week-old newspaper. She looked up, followed his eyes to the bedroom door just visible down the hall and then dropped her attention back to the newsprint in front of her.

"Leon's a good guy," she said, penciling in a couple more letters. "So leave him alone."

Chris narrowed his eyes, "what do you think I'm going to do?"

It had been like this between them ever since he'd come back. He had known it would take time, but he hadn't expected this level of cool indifference, nearly bordering on hostility, from her. Barry and Rebecca had been easy to win over, but Jill, next to Wesker, had always been the hard-ass in Alpha team.

"I don't know Chris," she erased the letters in one of the columns with hard, furious strokes, finally tearing the paper. She threw her pencil down on the ruined paper, looking across the table at him. "It's hard for me to say what you're going to do these days."

"If you want me to apologize-"

She held up a hand to stall his words, "I told you that you don't have to justify yourself to me. It was your call - you're the only one you have to answer to for it."

"If I would have known what was going to happen in Raccoon…"

"What, you would have stayed? I don't need you to protect me Chris – obviously." She stood up, insulted.

"Barry told me that you were infected," Chris stood up too, facing off with her across the table. He knew it was a low blow to make, and incredibly arrogant to assume things would have been different if he were there, but he was tired of living in a parallel universe. He wanted a confrontation. If Jill could get mad, she could get even, and then things could get back to normal. Maybe.

"Somehow I made it out okay without you."

She and Chris had logged more hours together in those few weeks after the mansion incident than in their entire career together up until that point. She had become so used to his presence, his movements; she knew the way he breathed, spoke, and thought. She had foolishly allowed herself to become accustomed to his presence and had felt his departure like a wound. Chris took a step forward to come around the table.

"I thought you were dead, Jill," he said, taking their conversation out on a tangent.

"Don't come over here Chris."

"I thought you were dead and there were all these things I regretted not doing."

He stepped in front of her, and although she could have easily turned around and walked away she stayed, her hand white knuckled on the back of the chair.

"We can't do them now. You know that."

"I know that."

He took another step towards her and she could feel the familiar, inviting warmth that radiated off of him.

"This isn't the time Chris."

"There might not ever be a time," he said, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders. She was standing right next to him, looking straight up at him.

"We can't do this," she repeated, but again made no move to step away.

"Do you not want to?" he lowered his head a bit. Jill unconsciously licked her lower lip, averting her eyes. It was all the invitation he needed to move just a little closer and press his lips over hers.

He had known finally kissing Jill would be amazing, but he had never guessed that it would be like pressing his lips up against a firecracker. She crushed her face against his, the softness of her cheek raking along the coarse stubble of his jaw. One of her hands fisted itself in the collar of his shirt while the other raked nails across his back. He pulled her tightly against the hard frame of his body, pushing her back against the table. His hands were everywhere, firm and calloused. She twisted her fingers in his cropped hair, pulling his head back to nip at the angled line of his throat.

In the background they both heard the rattle of someone placing their hand on a doorknob. Chris pushed himself away, taking a step back as Jill sat up, straightening her shirt.

Leon stepped into the hallway, taking in their flushed faces and swollen lips. Jill shot Chris a look out of the corner of her eye.

"Don't let me interrupt," Leon said, shouldering his way by. From where she was standing Jill could see an angry red mark across his cheek. Chris, operating on fraternal instinct, moved to occupy the space the younger man had just been in.

Jill sat down in her chair again with a sigh. She glanced down at the newspaper, her eyes catching on the cheesy horoscopes that occupied the back page with the crossword.

_Someone you have to deal with will be erratic about what he or she expects or wants. An emotional problem will develop if you mix business with pleasure._

She rolled her eyes, folding up the paper and dumping it into the woodstove on her way out.


	8. Chapter 8

Leon hadn't ever thought he would feel this afraid to knock on his own front door…again. The last time he had been seventeen and had just finished wrapping his father's car (and favourite family member) around a light post. At that time he had been genuinely afraid that his father would disown him and kick him to the curb. He wasn't exactly sure what he was afraid of this time – the inherent awkwardness of watching your parents cry; the possibility that they _wouldn't_ cry; that he'd fit in so well that he'd never want to leave back to the cold, vice-like embrace of the government; or maybe that he'd feel as awkward with his own flesh and blood as he did everywhere else.

From inside the high peals of female laughter poured out through a window left slightly ajar. It was a tone he couldn't place; someone who had come into his family in the two years he'd been missing. He had wondered a lot about what he was missing out on in those long, hard months spent honing himself into one of the world's top government agents. Having put it off long enough, he pushed his finger against the cheery light of the doorbell.

The musical chimes sounded inside, silencing the murmur of conversation he could hear. A young, male voice could be heard along with the telltale scrape of chair feet against wood flooring. A lifetime ago he would have been able to identify the speaker as one or other of his brothers, but now he couldn't be sure. Feet padded solidly towards the door. Leon felt his stomach lurch violently into his chest.

The heavy wood door with its festive wreath of fall leaves and acorns swung open to reveal a handsome young man, exactly two years, seven months, and one hundred and seventy-three days his junior. His younger brother Lucas had always been the most outgoing and brash of the three Kennedy boys, more than compensating for the calm seriousness of Liam, and the quiet intensity of Leon. His quick wit and smart mouth had secured him the position of class clown and general loud-mouth for as long as Leon had known him, but as he stood across the threshold from his older, assumed dead brother he was speechless, a crumpled linen napkin still clutched uselessly in one hand. After a moment, he found his voice-box again.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he blurted out, the bare toes poking out from under the hem of his slacks seemingly rooted in place. The man facing him looked nothing like the excited rookie cop he'd last associated with his brother; he was larger, harder, more blond and more awkward. But the eyes, shadowed and tired as they seemed, were instantly recognizable – they were the same pair that stared back at him from a mirror, or the face of his other brother or father.

Leon wasn't the only one who had changed. When he had left for his illustrious career in Raccoon City, his younger brother had been barely out of high school, shaggy-haired, and constantly reeking of pot smoke, cheap beer, and unwashed teenage boy. He had also been about four inches shorter that Leon. The tall young man in front of him with his short, dark hair and crisp white shirt tucked neatly into his creased slacks may as well have been a stranger. Unsure of how to continue, they both stood like that for a moment, taking in what had changed, and what had stayed the same.

"Don't just fucking stand there – get your ass in here," Lucas said at last, reaching across the space to grab the collar of Leon's jacket and pull him inside. It was an uncharacteristic gesture, one born of the need to physically establish that this was all real.

Leon had lived in this house for his entire life up until the point where he had found himself fatefully employed by the Racoon City Police Department. His parents had purchased it shortly after their marriage to accommodate the family that had begun with the birth of his older brother three years before his own arrival on the scene. Over the years it had changed in some ways – a new coat of paint or set of furniture in one room or another – but he still knew inside and out, blindfolded. Every creaking step, every dented corner where some young body had been checked in a game of indoor hockey, every drafty window, and every finicky faucet were etched into his brain. There were some minor changes he could see, most notably the now outdated portrait of himself on the mantle, smiling broadly, suited up in his formal uniform against a backdrop of green summer leaves. He wanted to reach into the picture frame and slap the grin right off his own stupid face.

The house may have been essentially the same, but he wasn't, not in any shape or form, and he wondered if there was still a place for him here amongst the memorial pictures and the brothers he barely recognized.

"Hey everybody, close your eyes," Lucas called and was answered by a series of groans.

"Nobody's falling for that old trick, Lucas. Not after last time," came the reply of who Leon could now recognize as the eldest of the Kennedy boys. Lucas rolled his eyes and shrugged as if to say "it's not my fault nobody in this family has a sense of humour". As irritating as Leon had often found his younger brother's practical jokes and general sense of humour growing up, he was glad to have someone on his side to break the ice. Preceding him through the open doorway to the dining room, Lucas took a dramatic step to the side,

"Tada!"

Five sets of eyes stared back at Leon displaying varying degrees of shock, confusion, and in the case of a small infant squirming in a high chair between his older brother and what must assumably be his sister-in-law, blissful ignorance. The confusion that flashed across the pretty features of his brother's wife (even a blind man couldn't miss the sparkle on her finger) was understandable. Both of Leon's brother's had inherited his father's dark hair and square, Irish jaw lines – the resemblance between the three was unmistakable. Leon on the other hand, with his lighter, sometimes reddish hair and narrow face, took after his mother's side. The "Scottish Kennedy", as the joke had run in his youth.

Looking around the table, Leon realized how excruciatingly long the past two years had been for the people seated in front of him. Both of his parents were greyer, frailer than when he had last seen them, and there were lines around his brother's eyes that had no place on a man of only twenty-six. Before him was a family who has struggled, and finally succeeded (as far as one could succeed in such a thing), in dealing with the horrible, barely-explained death of a son. The pieces had barely settled back into place and he had set off the minefield all over again.

"Leon…" his mother stood up slowly, shakily, reaching out as she came towards him. Her hands, as warm and as slightly rough from gardening as he remembered, cupped his face and pushed his hair back from his eyes. His mother had green eyes, unusual in their paleness, now red and watery. "It's really you isn't it?"

Suddenly he was eight years old again, bedridden with chicken pox, or fifteen and sobbing his heart out over the first girl who ever dumped him. Then, as now, a mother's touch and kind word had dulled the pain and discomfort of existence immeasurably. He had spent months wondering if there would still be a place for him here, and now he knew he had done so needlessly.

"Yea, it is," he managed to squeak out from his paralyzed vocal chords.

She didn't ask him to explain where he'd been in the time in between, or why it had taken him so long, just pulled him in to a rib-cracking hug. After ensuring that he was in fact real and in one piece, she pushed herself away to arms-length.

"You must be starving; come and have something to eat," she ushered him to a seat, swiping at her eyes with the back of a hand.

There was a shuffle of movement as an extra chair was brought in and plates and cutlery were shifted. Leon found himself squeezed between his parents right across from his older brother who had yet to say anything, a miniature-sized spoon of something puréed and orange held loosely in his hand. His father, never one for overt displays of affection, clapped a hand on his shoulder, holding his son's gaze with same penetrating, light-blue eyes that had helped to make him such an effective police detective.

"You alright?" the authoritative voice was just a little gruff with emotion.

"I'm alright, dad."

"I…I don't believe it," the stuttered words of the eldest Kennedy son interrupted. Looking at Liam had always been like observing a living portrait of his father at a younger age. Not only were the two similar in appearance, but Liam had inherited the serious, no-nonsense manner of his sire. His two younger brothers had, in some ways, been fortunate to grow up with an older sibling with such a strong sense of order and discipline. In other ways, he had set the bar impossibly high.

Leon could do simple math – he knew how long it took to plan a wedding, to gestate a human child. And he knew all too well exactly how long he had been gone. Two years ago his brother had been unattached, childless, and newly hired on with an important stock brokerage in New York, still living in a house he shared with his roommates from college. It appeared that, once again, Liam had been stuck cleaning up for the messes his younger siblings made.

"I just…can't believe it."

"It's okay," Leon shrugged, "most of the time, neither can I."


	9. Chapter 9

Leon is sitting outside on the steps of the porch nursing his wounded pride. He can feel the dried blood cracking on his skin when he moves his face, but if he couldn't be bothered to wipe it off when it was wet, he certainly can't be bothered now. He doesn't know what's wrong with him, but he hasn't felt like himself in weeks. Since he drove into a biohazard disaster and barely walked out alive more precisely. His life had finally started to come together when he'd gotten the call for the job in Raccoon City; now he barely knows why he bothers to get up in the morning. He barely recognizes the shaggy-haired figure that looks back at him from the mirror and can only predict his own actions a fraction of the time.

The door opens behind him, the screen door on springs shutting with a bang. He doesn't bother turning around, he hopes whoever is stepping out will walk right by. Something cool nudges his shoulder and he turns to see Chris Redfield holding out a bag of frozen peas to him, one of his eyes almost entirely swollen shut. Leon looks at the peas, then up at Chris, then back down at the peas, swiping them out of the other man's hand and pressing them to the bruising side of his face. At least Chris has taken the time to wash the blood off of his face, the miserable, heavy-fisted bastard that he is.

Chris sits down on the step next to Leon; it's wide enough to accommodate them both with a wide, neutral buffer in between. The older man fishes a hand into one of the cargo pockets on his pants, pulling out a crumpled package of cheap cigarettes. He holds the package out to Leon who shakes his head,

"No. You go ahead."

He does, tapping the butt against the package a couple of times before placing it between his lips. The gold casing of an engraved S.T.A.R.S. lighter flashes as it slips out of another pocket to produce the tiny, cheery flame that always precedes the increasingly familiar smell of cigarette smoke.

They both understand that what just transpired between them, not fifteen feet from where they now sit together, wasn't personal. Now that the status quo has been established, now that tempers have been reset, there's no reason for hostilities.

The smell of burning tobacco wafts over to Leon who keeps his eyes trained on the grass beyond the steps. His head hurts, and not just from the swelling bruise on his jaw, although that is a large part of it. Just when he thinks he should get up to leave Chris speaks.

"She'll get over it," he exhales a plume of smoke and leans over to spit, grimacing at the faint, acrid taste of blood still lingering in his mouth. Leon looks over at him blankly, like he doesn't know who the older, cleaner man is talking about. "She's gotten over worse, believe me."

"If that's not her worst, I don't think I want to see what is."

Chris snorts, "I've always said Claire should have been born a thermometer she's so up and down. You've got enough to worry about rookie, just let her lick her wounds and she'll come around sooner or later."

Leon looks down at his hands, flexing the battered knuckles of one hand and then the other. "Have you ever let anyone down before? I mean _really_ let them down; to the point where there's no making it up?"

Chris takes a long drag, "I walked into a mansion with almost my entire team, and walked out with barely a handful of my friends. I left my partner and my kid sister in a city that's nothing more than a crater. Yea, I guess you could say I've let a few people down in my time."

"What do you do?" Leon is willing to put aside his pride for now. Guilt shreds him up on a daily basis and he knows if he can't get his act together he'll be more than just out of a job when the Feds get through with him.

"If you're me, you probably do something stupid like let some busted rookie break up your face a bit. But I wouldn't recommend it." A faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips but the joke is lost on Leon. "You can't say you're sorry if you're dead, and if they're already gone, then it doesn't really matter."

"I guess not."

"Sorry," Chris shrugs. It's not the greatest advice he's ever given, but he's hardly a shining example himself these days.

"Look…" Leon sighs; he's not used to apologizing to people who've just used his face as a punching bag. He doesn't want the words to sound forced, because he really does mean them. "About what I said… I'm sorry."

A short, sharp, bark of laughter erupts out of Chris. "Don't be – what you said, it's all true. One day she's going to realise it and that'll be the end of me." He flicks the smouldering butt of his cigarette out into the gravel of the path. "Nice try, though."

A series of audible pops can be heard as Chris stands up and stretches, heading back into the house. He pauses with the screen door open, the incandescent porch light casting his bruised features into almost grotesque shadows.

"Jill told me to tell you that since she won the bet there's half a piece of pie waiting for you on the table. But you'd better wash up first – she has this thing about blood at the dinner table." He shrugs, "go figure that."


	10. Chapter 10

Jill's room was one of the most cramped in the house, located awkwardly at an unexpected landing on the stairs up to the attic that currently housed their communications equipment – what little of it there was. It was obviously an in-house renovation, possibly undertaken to appease some growing adolescent who was tired of bunking with siblings in one of the larger rooms. But what it lacked in space it made up for in privacy, as the stairway was little used by anyone other than Jill herself. So the soft knock at the door was somewhat startling, if not totally unexpected. After what had just happened, and also_ not_ happened, in the kitchen, it was inevitable that Chris would come to seek her out. She may not have been able to predict when he would take off into the unknown, but she still knew Chris Redfield well enough to tell that he wouldn't let something like that go unresolved.

Getting up from her crowded cot, still fully dressed, still feeling the burn of his stubble across her lips and cheek, Jill closed the small space to the door and opened it. As expected, Chris was out on the tiny landing, mostly just a silhouette of darker against dark. After that night at the Spencer Estate his shape was something she couldn't forget. She had burned it into her memory, terrified that she would shoot him by mistake in the blackness. His shape and the back of his S.T.A.R.S. vest illuminated by the light of gunfire were two images that would never fade from her mind. He was leaner now, whatever comfortable layer of body fat he had once had burned off months ago from hard living. But, despite the defeats and the frustrations, he held himself in exactly the same, self-assured manner that had always inspired the confidence of his peers. Chris Redfield was a natural born leader if there ever was one.

"Hi," he said quietly, not wanting to attract the attentions of the rest of the house's sleeping, or brooding, or just thinking occupants.

"Hi," Jill wasn't sure what the proper protocol was for greeting co-workers you just made out a little with.

"Is it alright if I come in? I thought we should maybe talk about…" This was the Diplomatic Chris, the one who smoothed over ruffled feathers and presented reports to the Chief of Police. Definitely not the one who cornered his team mates in kitchens and seared them with blistering hot body contact.

"Sure, of course," Jill stepped aside, moving back to sit on the small bed. Chris stood with his back against the door; there wasn't room for any other furniture in the tiny space that had probably started life as a linen closet. A long picture window on the wall above the bed provided the only light in the room. There was a lamp propped up on the stack of outdated phonebooks that served as a nightstand, but both Chris and Jill had the same, independent thought that this type of conversation would be easier if you didn't have to look someone in the face.

"Look, Jill, about what happened downstairs…I… ahhh fuck," he scratched the back of his head with a boyish insecurity she had never seen on him but found endearing. "Do you regret it?"

"Do you?"

"I asked you first."

Jill laughed a little and shrugged her accession. She was as nervous as he was, looking down at her oversized, mismatched men's socks which were horribly stained and pulled up to her knees under her pants. If she lied and said yes, she could possibly end their entire partnership in the resulting tension and awkwardness. But it would be safer, more professional, and less messy. If she was truthful and admitted no, she had no idea what they would do and that thought was terrifying.

But looking up at him, his features highlighted in cool, dark blue light, she saw the same conflict, and it was reassuring. They were partners; they would get through this together.

"…no," her voice was only slightly above a whisper.

"You don't?"

"No," she was a little more confident the second time around. "Do you?"

"No," he said, allowing himself to grin a little at the pleasant memory of her body, her lips, underneath his.

"Okay."

"Yeah."

They were both so ridiculously nervous that Jill wanted to laugh. Two adults of their experience had no place bumping around each other like they'd never held hands with anyone before. Like they hadn't spent endless weeks together in close quarters. Like she'd never nearly walked right smack into his bare, damp chest coming out of her apartment bathroom back in Raccoon City. Like she'd never passed out from exhaustion to find herself sweetly tucked under a blanket on his couch. She reached over and grabbed something off the nightstand, offering it out to him.

"Here, I believe this is yours."

He could have reached out and taken it from her hand without moving in the narrow bedroom, but he took a step forward and she shifted to allow him room to sit down beside her. The ancient cot protested their combined weight but held firmly. Chris pulled the knife out of the sheath, the handle fitting perfectly against his palm, the nicks in the blade as recognizable as any feature of his own body.

"You found it," he tested the sharpness of the edge with a callused thumb. "My lucky knife."

"Yeah, in that dank old hideout of yours up in the forest. Some luck."

"My dad gave me this knife before he died. We used to use that hideout as a hunting shack."

"So you left it, expecting me to find it."

"I honestly don't know what I was expecting."

There was a pause. Chris slipped the knife back into the sheath and set it back down on the phonebooks.

"Why, Chris?" It's the question that had been burning in her head and her chest since he skipped town all those months ago. "Why just leave without saying anything? Did you really think we wouldn't try to track you down? Or did you think I wasn't strong enough to go with you?"

"That wasn't it at all," his voice rose a bit above the near whisper they had been speaking in. "I just… I was so frustrated, and tired, and scared and I just… freaked out. I just," he sighed, trying to relieve the pressure in his chest "freaked out. I thought it would be easier if I went underground. I thought that maybe if they weren't watching my every goddamn move I could finally get somewhere. I thought it would be dangerous, so it would be better if you stayed in Raccoon."

"You just didn't _think_, did you?"

"I was scared, Jill."

"I was scared too. After Barry left for Canada you were all I had. And then I had nothing – just an empty apartment and a desk full of your shit."

"I am sorry, Jill. I regret it more than anything. You know I'm paying for it."

"I thought we were partners, Chris."

"We _are_ partners," he took by the shoulders and turned her towards him. "We're in this until the end – together. You can trust me; I've learned my lesson."

Jill leaned forward and rested her head against his shoulder.

"And you're never going to pull this shit again?"

"Never," he said, stroking a hand lightly over her hair.

"And if you do?"

"… you're going to hobble me?" he guessed.

Jill laughed and he could feel the reverberations through his shoulder; it was a pleasant sensation, and an increasingly rare occasion to hear her actually laugh out loud.

"Something like that I guess."

"Alright well, if we have that taken care of," he used the hand at the back of her neck to tilt her head upwards to face his. "I believe we were in the middle of a very important, serious discussion when some rookie punk interrupted us."

The exaggerated motion of her eye-roll was lost on him as his lips pressed into hers again. Of course Chris Redfield would kiss with his eyes closed.


	11. Chapter 11

"What did you just say to me?"

This has been a long time in coming. The two men, both frustrated with their current lot in life and without a truly constructive way to release tension, have been knocking around for the past few weeks, mounting the pressure in the powder keg up to this final breaking point. The hum of their agitation is in the air. Chris thought he would have to be the one to set it off – he usually is - but evidently Leon was more up to the challenge than he'd been given credit for.

"I said 'you don't deserve her' – are you fucking deaf?" Leon enunciates each word slowly and with cutting precision. They're facing off in the tiny, cozy kitchen, two pairs of arms crossed against a backdrop of wooden cupboards and obnoxious, chicken-themed wallpaper borders. Leon is positioned just inside the open door way; Chris is propped up against counter near the sink. In between them is a measured grid of tiles and dirty grout marking a graduated series of lines in the sand.

"And why's that, asshole?"

"Because you're a coward."

Chris' jaw tenses, his eerie, two-toned eyes narrowing. If they were perfectly matched Leon would be pinned by double pin-pricks of deep, steely blue. But one is strangely different from the other, a patch of brown spreading out from the bottom of his right pupil like a puddle of blood from a bullet wound. It's some genetic affliction that Rebecca probably knows the name of.

"So what the fuck does that make you, you scrawny piece of shit."

"You couldn't take the heat so you skipped town – you skipped out on _her_. And you almost got your kid sister killed because of it. Either you're too illiterate to pick up a goddamn pen, or you're just too stupid not to know better. Either way, she deserves better, they both do."

"And I suppose you think you're the man for the job, do you Rookie?" Chris pushes himself away from the countertop, taking just one step forward. It's clear that the majority of the territory is his; it always has been, even when he was just a name without a face.

"I know that if I had a fucking gorgeous, intelligent, kick-ass girl like that keeping my bed warm at night I wouldn't just leave her to die alone in some shithole town."

In the back of their testosterone-addled brains they both know that this isn't really about Jill. It isn't even really about Chris or Leon. But, as they don't know each other well enough to beat the shit out of one another for no reason, it has to be about something. And so they've made it about the same thing men have made their battles about for millennia.

Leon pulls himself up as tall as he can to minimize the small height difference between them; Chris may have a territorial advantage, but Leon has the only exit blocked behind him.

"Why don't you just mind your own goddamn business and go back to jerking off over my sister? That's what you're best at, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he draws the word out lewdly, "that is what I'm best at, isn't it?" There are only boys in the Kennedy family, but Leon can imagine that, if he had a kid sister, this tone would be the most infuriating.

Taking the last few steps, Chris closes the space between them until they're breathing the same hot, putrid air. He isn't tall enough to really look down his nose at the younger man, but he manages a half-decent job of it anyway. Up close his mutated iris pulls all the attention from the rest of his face. It's the only remotely beautiful thing about his gaunt, masculine features, currently half-twisted into a sneer.

"If you've got a death wish you should have stayed in Raccoon."

"I could say the same thing to you."

"You could, but I don't think you have the balls."

"You want to take this outside, Redfield?"

"I'd love to," Chris forcefully brushes past him in the doorway, his shoulder connecting hard with Leon's collarbone. The impact of it sends a jolt of pain into Leon's still-healing flesh, but he bites back any complaint and follows on Chris' heels out into the yard.

It's cold outside – cold enough that they can see their breath if they breathe hard enough. The yard is a stretch of hard, brown grass bisected by a gravel path that forms the long walk up to the house from the road some distance away. Two large trees have grown together to form a shady arch over the path in front of the house. Leon is used to shovelling out the driveway at this time of year, but their too far south for there to be any real accumulation of snow. It's cold, but not nearly cold enough to douse the tempers of the two young men.

For a moment they just size each other up in the twilight, trying to determine the strengths, the weaknesses of their opponent. Leon looks like a kid with his shaggy hair that curls up against the collar of his bulky borrowed sweater; but Chris isn't stupid enough to underestimate him. The rookie cop is shorter, but not by enough for it to be a real advantage. With his unkempt hair and stubble Chris looks like an alcoholic Leon once saw laying passed out on a park bench, complete with massive dark rings under his eyes. Leon cracks his neck and tries to remember what he overheard Jill saying in the van when she and Barry made their bet.

Chris makes the first move, swiping at Leon with one of his fists, but the younger man skirts back and out of his reach. The extra bulk of Leon's sweater snags on Chris' fingers, the older man pulling the younger into the knuckles of his other hand. Leon uses the force and the proximity to drive his own fist into Chris' stomach and feels the hot rush of forcibly expelled air against his face.

There were times in his life when Leon had considered his lanky build a liability, and months of living on the run have only served to exaggerate the formation of his limbs. For Chris, it's like trying to fight a handful of moving rebar, and when Leon lands a good hit high on his cheek it sends him back a step. For his part, Leon quickly discovers that Jill's comparison between Chris and an armoured vehicle was fairly accurate, and every swipe that he fails to dodge hits him _hard_. Together they are a blur of fists and blood, split lips and bleeding noses. Leon, still recovering from his gunshot wound, is weak on one side, and the eventual victor quickly becomes apparent. They both knew there was only one way for this to end, even before it even began.

Rebecca catches sight of rapid movement outside her window, immediately identifying the two figures, even in the dim light. Her booted feet pound down the stairs, attracting the attention of the safe-house's other occupants. She's concerned that Leon's going to rip open his wound again, setting him back another few weeks.

The door opens behind them, the screen slamming against the clapboard, just as Chris drives Leon back against the trunk of one of the trees. Breathing hard in each other's faces, neither of them is really aware of the group of people that has formed behind them, too cautious to get involved while the fists are still flying. As he is pinned up against the bark, Leon thinks about how incredibly much he hates the relatively good shape Chris is in – the older man is bleeding some from where his lip was split up against his teeth, but Leon's own face is wet with the blood that is pouring out of his nose.

"You even _look_ at her and I swear to God I'll cut your balls off, you fucking pill junkie," Chris' words are accented by his panting breath.

But Leon can barely hear the words over the screaming rush of pain that has filled his head as the fingers of one of Chris' hands unintentionally dig into the wound on his shoulder. Logic and reason are erased from his repertoire of brain functions as the pain becomes agony, and then worse. All he can think of is ending it, doing _anything_ to end it, and he rears back, spitting a mouthful of blood all over Chris's face.

Instinctively the group steps back, too aware of what can be transmitted by blood to act otherwise. Chris follows suit, dropping Leon into a gasping heap on the ground and spitting a mouthful of his own blood onto the ground next to him. Barry quickly steps in before matters can re-escalate, although it seems unlikely that they will. He pulls Chris away by the shoulders and sets him off towards the house and where Jill is waiting for him with her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed. Leon has pulled himself into a sitting position against the tree, but avoids eye contact and so Barry chooses to leave him where he is, ushering Rebecca inside before she can approach to ensure that her handiwork is still in place.

Out of the corner of his eye, Leon can see a pair of familiar brown boots standing indignantly in front of him.

"Do you even know why you do these things?" Claire asks in the same, pointed tone she always uses with him these days. Looking up at her, his face a ruin of blood, Leon says nothing, too disgusted with himself for looking so pathetic in front of her; for looking so pathetic, period. Frustrated with his lack of reply, Claire shakes her head, and walks back into the house, closing the door quietly behind her.

Leon looks up, but there are no stars beyond the mostly-naked branches of the tree, just the slow, black drift of overcast skies making their way overhead. And as he looks up he thinks to himself:

_How appropriate_.


	12. Chapter 12

Leon flips his card over and places it in front of him on the table, revealing a six of diamonds. Sherry, seated across from him, does the same, flipping over a ten of hearts.

"Ha!" she crows, collecting both the cards from the scratched wood and adding them to her ever-increasing pile.

"What is that? Did you stack the deck?" Leon demands, looking over at his pitifully small pile of cards.

"No – you just have really bad luck."

"Tell me about it," he flips over the next card – a three of spades. "Oh Lord…"

From the little hallway outside the kitchen they can hear the crescendo of a hopeless phone call as it descends from bad to worse.

"No…I know you can't release that kind of information I just… all I need to know is if any charges have been… alright – no, no thank _you_ for your time."

The phone slams back into its cradle with enough force to make Sherry jump in her seat across the room. Jill stands with her back to both of them, one hand white knuckled on the receiver, the other covering her face. It's been a rough few days, to say the least.

"Jill…is there-"

"No," she says tightly and takes a deep breath, letting it hiss out through her teeth. "I'm fine. I just need to work this out."

Two days earlier Claire had taken it upon herself to disappear sometime in the night, leaving only her trademark vest behind. Living with one absentee Redfield was bad enough – living without both of them is more like a nightmare than anything else. So while Jill and Barry and Rebecca run themselves ragged searching for any signs of life from either missing party, Leon stays close to Sherry; he knows she's taking Claire's flight the worst out of all of them. And although it's easy to condemn her seemingly reckless decision to leave, Leon knows it can't have been easy for her. Catching Sherry's eye above their mess of cards, Leon motions to the back door of the kitchen.

"We're uhh… going to go out for a bit – get a change of scenery for a while."

"Yeah, sure… that's fine," Jill doesn't even turn around as they leave out the backdoor. Normally composed, her temper has stretched to the breaking point in the mad rush to find her partner's younger sister. Leon doesn't know the details of it, but he knows they quarreled the night before Claire left – the whole neighbourhood probably knew it.

It's early afternoon, the sun still high and bright as it moves across the sky towards the horizon. There's plenty to do around the house, but all of it's draining – re-enforcing windows, reloading clips, reviewing maps – not much to keep a kid interested for long. Even, or maybe especially, a smart kid like Sherry Birkin. Leon can see that living on the run like this is wearing her down quickly after the crippling loss of both of her parents. Everyone else left here now is a cop – far removed from the world of little girls. Claire had been a connection to something more tangible, more relatable, but now she's gone too. There's been talk of sending Sherry to stay with Barry's wife and daughters in Canada, and personally, Leon thinks it's something that should have been done a month ago.

"You want to go get something to eat somewhere?" He's still got a couple of bills left in his wallet. There's not much worth saving them for anymore.

"Where?"

"I don't know – anywhere but here. Anything but creamed corn." Their newest rent-by-the-week-no-questions-asked household features an electric stove without any working burners so every meal must be prepared by a single hot plate that's hooked in to one of the few working outlets. Every morning Leon is secretly thankful that they haven't all been burned to death in a horrific electrical fire.

"Sure, that would be really great!" A rare smile lights up her wan features.

They go to collect the van keys from Barry and find him hunched over a set of two-way radios, trying to decipher why one will only transmit and one will only receive. Like Jill, he's a little too distracted to take any real notice and hands the keys over without second thought.

Half an hour passes by in a blur of empty highway and they find themselves seated across from each other once more, this time over a spread of greasy burgers and fries and frosty milkshakes served in the metal tumblers they were prepared in – real comfort food worth his last penny. The diner is a classic ma-and-pa operation; quaint pictures on the walls, mismatched cutlery, and a waitress that seems to have taken pity on the pair of world-weary travelers with an extra-generous helping of complementary pie. The only other patron is a long-haul truck driver with his nose buried in a day-old paper, so it's obvious when the door chimes and another pair of men step into the place.

But these men don't look like they live on the road; their clothes are clean and pressed, their faces freshly shaven. Leon hasn't seen a face that well-kept in weeks. It takes them all of a heartbeat to zoom in on where he and Sherry are sitting in a corner booth, and they split up for a two-pronged attack – one zeroing in on the aging waitress, and the other sauntering over to the table. Sherry looks up at him with huge, scared eyes as the man in the black suit approaches from behind his shoulder.

"Just keep eating," he tells her quietly. "Remember what we talked about. I'll talk."

She nods and drops her eyes back to her plate as the man clears his throat.

"Leon Scott Kennedy?"

He tries not to flinch at the sound of his own name - a curse though it is - turning to look up at the older man.

"Excuse me – what?"

"You are Leon Kennedy, aren't you son?" The man holds out a piece of paper with his name, vital statistics, and fresh-faced police academy picture emblazoned across the page. His hair is longer now, his face leaner and scruffier, but the resemblance is – unfortunately - still undeniable.

"I'm sorry sir, but I think you've got the wrong guy."

"Really now – because I'd swear you were the spittin' image of the man."

Leon just shrugs and prays that Sherry will keep her head down; that the picture they have of her is even more outdated; that the roof will cave in on top of these two thugs so they can make their escape…

"I think you'd better come with us, Mr. Kennedy" The other man has finally approached the table, a shiny FBI badge held open in his hand. Over his shoulder, Leon can see the waitress biting a nail as her other half peeks in through the order window. His heart sinks. He just has really bad luck.


End file.
